Don't Fear the Reaper
by Angst Is My Middle Name
Summary: Coming face-to-face with Death doesn't necessarily mean you are about to die... "There is only one god, and His name is Death. And there is only one thing we say to Death: 'not today'." -Syrio Forel, Game of Thrones.


**_Many thanks to tumblr user harrimaniac27 for being a lovely beta. You helped me out loads :)_**

**_Poem by Dylan Thomas. Fic features (temporary) character death. No foul language. Originally inspired by song "Don't Fear the Reaper" by Blue Oyster Cult. Little nod to Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire that I couldn't help but include._**

**_Cross-posted on AO3 under xcourtney_chaoticx._**

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Hank Stanley joined the LA County Fire Department right out of high school and has never looked back. The fire department gives him a sense of purpose. He's too young to have been in Korea, will be too old for Vietnam when it escalates, and maybe being a fireman isn't the safest career choice, but he feels that it gives his life more meaning than anything else would. He marries Ginny Bukoski (the sister of another fireman) not two years after joining the department, becomes a father another two years after that, and his new family gives him more meaning than any job possibly could. Still, Hank cannot imagine a place or time where he's not a fireman.

Ginny is pregnant with their second child when it happens. Hank is a lineman, and he and his partner are going through a smoldering house, looking for victims. He feels a rush of hot air, feels himself being lifted from his feet, feels himself slam into a wall face first. Then he feels nothing. No heat. No pain. Curiously, he can open his eyes, and he blinks up at the ceiling. Everything looks dull and muted. He gets to his feet, standing on long, shaky legs, and looks around. His legs almost give out when he looks to where he was just laying. He is still laying there, a crumpled heap amid the swirling remnants of smoke. He tries to cry out for his partner but finds he has no voice, so he goes to the window. The men outside move slowly, like they are underwater, and Hank can't tell if they're coming inside or not.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when someone taps him on the shoulder, and he supposes he should be afraid when he turns to find the Grim Reaper standing there… but he isn't. Calmly, he takes in the figure before him: a black-robed figure, skeletal, with bony fingers, scythe clutched in one hand. He can't see a face under the hood, but he knows it would just be a skull. The Reaper gestures for Hank to follow, but he shakes his head, stepping back. He cannot go now. He cannot follow the Reaper. He is a father, a husband. His little daughter needs her papa, and so will the unborn child he has yet to meet. Hank steps away from the Reaper again, unwilling to go gentle into that good night.

The Reaper shakes His head, gesturing at Himself, then at Hank's own unmoving body. Hank hesitates. A bony hand extends toward him, the scythe gone from the Reaper's person, as if to say He's not here to Reap Hank, not here to take him away. It's something Hank feels more than knows, feels it in his very bones, so he steps up and accepts the bony hand, allows the skeletal fingers to close around his. The Reaper pulls him aside, and together they wait.

Firemen come rushing in and take Hank's body out to the engine and the waiting ambulance; Hank and the Reaper follow. Hank's partner, Chuck Angelus, is there, and Hank is relieved to know he's alive. Chuck kneels beside Hank's lifeless body, crying that he can't find a pulse. The Reaper pokes a bony finger into Hank's chest and points to his body. A death rattle sounds from beneath the hood, a rasping, "_Not today_," that sends a chill up Hank's spine. He quickly goes to his body and lies down, aligning himself with his unmoving limbs, and closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, his whole body is wracked with throbbing pain, sharp pain, burning pain. The doctors assure him he is a lucky man, that he almost died. Hank wonders if perhaps what he experienced was all part of some insane dream his wounded brain cooked up. He wonders if perhaps what he experienced was all too real.

_Do not go gentle into that good night,  
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

Marco Lopez was born in the USA, but his roots run deep into Mexico. His mother used to tell him of ancient days when the Aztec people ruled central Mexico, when Mexican people had languages of their own and not one given them by another land. She wove the ancient tales into his and his siblings bedtime stories, explained their roles in modern traditions and the fantastic myths surrounding them. On Día de los Muertos, she would tell them of Mictecacihuatl, the Queen of the Underworld, now known to them as Santa Muerte. They cannot always pray to the Lady of Shadows openly, only on Día de los Muertos, but Santa Muerte is important to them. They know too many people in their poor neighborhood who need Her help, too many people doing drugs or selling their bodies to make ends meet or doing dangerous, backbreaking labor.

When Marco becomes a fireman, he prays to Santa Muerte even more. She will keep him safe from the smoke and flames, and should he die, She will guide him to his afterlife. Marco's mother gives him a statue of Santa Muerte to keep in his new apartment, already draped with a white cloak and adorned with some jewelry that belonged to Marco's grandmother. He lights candles to Her and prays to Her, knowing She will protect him when the time comes.

Marco is at a vicious apartment fire, one of those awful, poorly built buildings now used only by drug dealers and junkies and alcoholics. He prays to the Lady of Shadows as he goes in, prays for himself and the building's occupants as he searches for victims. He lets out a cry when the stairs collapse beneath him, sending him plummeting through the floor and into the basement below. The breath is knocked from his lungs. His back hurts more than anything ever has and seemingly ever will. He works desperately to suck in air, to get breath in his lungs, but it won't come. He's sure he will die here, in the basement of a shoddy hotel, unable to call for help.

It's so dark, so wretchedly dark. Marco can't see a thing around him. He can barely tell if he's facing up or down. He will die here where no one can find him. He's sure of it. He will die alone in the dark. That's when a light creeps into his vision, a white light, and he panics because that can only mean one thing, that he is dead. Instead, he sees Her: Santa Muerte. Skeletal, yet strangely beautiful, Her face is a grinning skull, Her bony arms outstretched. With a scythe slung across Her back and a globe emblazoned on the chest of Her white robe, She carefully pulls him from the wreckage, drags a loving finger down his cheek, and rasps, "_Hoy no_," in a voice that is at once rough and sweet. Santa Muerte guides him from the wrecked basement to a waiting comrade. Behr is jubilant upon seeing Marco alive and unhurt, asking what happened and how he got out. Marco just shakes his head. He can hardly understand what happened himself. Trying to get someone else to believe him will be impossible.

They make him go to the hospital to get checked out, and the doctors tell him he's lucky he didn't die, that he could've died six different ways in a fall like that, that it's a miracle he was barely hurt. He is soon sent home with an order to take it easy, just in case. He goes to his lovely Santa Muerte. Her white robe, which he makes sure to keep meticulously clean, is covered in dirt and soot, nearly black at the hem. Marco laughs. He laughs until he cries. He cries until his sobs become prayers to Her. He prays until he laughs again, a ringing sound full of joy at being alive, at knowing all occupants of that building made it out alive, at knowing he met his lovely Santa Muerte today, at knowing She answered his prayers.

_Though wise men at their end know dark is right,  
Because their words had forked no lightning they  
Do not go gentle into that good night._

Mike Stoker loves being a fireman. It's all he's ever wanted to do since he was a small child. Now, he is finally done his probationary. He's a full-fledged fireman, if a little green, all of twenty-one and ready for anything. The other guys at his station are very nice, especially the engineer, Fred Llewellyn. He knows Mike wants to be an engineer himself one day, so he does his best to show Mike what he knows, picks something new every day. Fred's a head shorter than Mike, built like a fireplug, rough and stubborn, but he's the kindest person Mike's ever met. He looks up to Fred, and Fred makes sure to look out for him.

They're at one of those crappy hotels that caters to alcoholics, cheap and poorly built. It seems like there's a call to one at least once a month, with some drunk falling asleep with a lit cigarette or dropping a burning match into the trash or setting his stove on fire. Fred wishes him luck, wishes all the men good luck as they haul lines toward the burning building. Another engine arrived before them, and the incident commander hurries over. He explains that he was sure they got everyone evacuated, but he was just informed that there is still someone in the building. Mike's captain tells him and his partner to go in and get the guy out, and they do as they are ordered.

Mike has to kick in the door to the first floor apartment, but at least it only takes him one kick. Inside, they find a drunk slumbering on the bed, though the door crashing open seems to have gotten his attention. The drunk lumbers to his feet, slurring at them to get out. Mike tries to explain to him that he has to get out, that the building is on fire, but the drunk won't listen. He becomes angry. He becomes erratic. He becomes… armed. It's a sharp, nasty-looking knife, with a seven-inch blade, and Mike's brain supplies the term 'KA-BAR'.

The two firemen carefully approach the drunk, eyeing the knife warily before making their move. Mike isn't aware of exactly what happened, but he's suddenly screaming, his arm in searing pain. Harper shouts for him to leave and works to subdue the drunk. Mike can't leave. He can't leave his partner. He just stands there in shock, cradling his arm, still unsure of what happened. When Harper finally has the drunk under control, he ends up hauling both him and Mike out by their collars. Mike's beginning to feel lightheaded and short of breath. He stumbles on his way out of the building and throws his arms out to catch himself. That's when he sees it.

The drunk slashed Mike's arm clean open, cutting through his turnout and slicing his forearm from elbow to wrist. His sleeve and front of his turnout are drenched in blood. He can practically see the blood gushing from his arm. He feels cold and confused and anxious. A rushing sound fills his ears as he collapses to the pavement, his legs crumpling beneath him. He's going to die. How awful. The rushing is deafening, his vision dark and blurred. His heart pounds, and he knows his pulse is high, much too high. He's bleeding to death here on the pavement in front of a shoddy hotel. He thinks it should have been different than this. He can't see or hear anything but dark and rushing.

Something wet and cold touches Mike's cheek, but he's too weak to brush it away… or maybe not. As soon as he feels it, his vision and hearing clear some, though they're far from perfect, and a calm settles over him. Mike pushes himself into a sitting position and is surprised by what he sees. The men around him are moving, going to the engine, to the hotel, but their movements are off somehow. The rushing in his ears is gone, but everything is now muted and muffled. He turns to his left, the side where the cold thing that touched his face came from, and he's not so surprised as he should be to find a large, white dog sitting there. She's enormous and wolf-like, one blue eye and one golden yellow, gazing at him peacefully. The Wolf-Dog gets to Her feet, standing on almost unnaturally long legs, and circles him. There is no malice in Her look, only curiosity. Apparently pleased with Her observation of him, She sits at his left side once more, staring with Her mismatched eyes.

Mike feels himself being moved, and She follows him into the ambulance, pressing Her nose to his cheek once more. He wonders why they allow Her in the ambulance. Animals are not allowed in the ambulance, yet there She sits, with Her head in his lap. She follows him into the hospital, as well, and into the treatment room, which is unheard of. He watches the doctors and nurses bustle about, moving in the same not-quite-right way as the other firemen at the hotel, not bothered by the enormous Wolf-Dog in their midst. She puts her paws up on the gurney beside him and licks his face, as if to say, "_Not today_."

She lets out a loud, low bark that reverberates in Mike's chest, and She's gone. Pain explodes in Mike's arm. The rushing sound returns, accompanied by the shouts of doctors and nurses.

Mike gets forty-five stitches in his arm and a blood transfusion. The doctors tell him he's lucky the knife didn't tear up the muscles too much, so he'll only need minimal physical therapy. They tell him he almost died. Fred tells him he did die and starts to say more but gets too choked up. He just puts his hand on Mike's shoulder and squeezes. Mike assures him he's fine, that he's okay, that he's alive. He decides it's better if he says nothing of the enormous Wolf-Dog with the mismatched eyes. No one, not even good old Fred, would believe that.

_Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright  
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

Roy DeSoto remembers his mother assuring him angels watch over him, and to this day, he wonders how that can be so. How could there be angels watching over him? Did they just sit by and watch while his father came home and beat him and his little brother and his mother? If so, they weren't very good angels. He thinks maybe they were replaced by better angels, ones that sent him his stepfather, sent him Joanne in fourth grade, inspired Joanne to say yes when he asks her to marry him, and that didn't send him to Vietnam. The angels have been a little better, but they'll have to keep their game up.

Now would be a good time to start. He's just a probie fireman, barely a month out of the Academy. His station has been called to a burning warehouse, a warehouse he is now currently lost inside. He can't see any flame, but the smoke is thick and choking, and he doesn't know where he is. Perhaps if he stays put someone will find him. He came in with his partner, after all, so he'll know where to find him… won't he?

Roy's heart thumps wildly in his chest. What if no one finds him? What if he dies here? Joanne just had a baby a few months ago. Roy can't die now. He can't. The smoke is so thick he can't see anything. He drops to his hands and knees, desperate to find a way out. He cannot die here. He won't.

He sees a light, and for a moment he thinks it's fire but quickly realizes it's far too white to be flame. It's too white to be daylight, too. His heart sinks. Tears fill his eyes. It's _that_ light. It's _The Light_. This isn't fair, not fair in the slightest. He has a beautiful wife, a beautiful baby. He needs to take care of them for many years to come. He's only at the beginning now, the beginning of his career, of his marriage, of fatherhood. He wants to cry at the injustice of it all. The Light is coming closer. His tears fall behind his air mask. It's just so _damn_ unfair.

The Light begins to take on a form, becomes tall and thin and human-shaped. Roy watches in fascination as The Light becomes a man glad in gleaming white, clean-shaven with golden locks. His presence makes Roy feel at peace, and his heartbeat begins to return to normal. The Being stretches out his hand for Roy to take, but Roy only cries again, begging for his life, pleading for The Being not to take him to Death. The Being only smiles and helps Roy to his feet. He tells Roy, "_Not today_," leading him through the thick smoke, though the smoke seems to part before The Being, the light cutting through the darkness. Roy allows himself to be led out, unsure if this all real or is somehow in his head, too shocked to do anything but follow his feet.

Someone calls his name, and Roy turns to find his partner there. The Being is gone now, but his partner leads him out to the engine and waiting ambulance. Mason informs him that he's amazed Roy's still alive, that he's been lost in that building for much longer than his air tank should have allowed. Roy just blinks at him. He has no explanation. He certainly can't say an angel led him out of the warehouse and probably saved his life. No one would believe this Miracle of the Air Tank… except maybe his mother. He does tell her about it.

She believes him.

_Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,  
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,  
Do not go gentle into that good night._

Chet Kelly has seen a lot by the time he becomes a fireman. He was in Vietnam, after all. He saw people die there. He watched friends and comrades die. He watched his little brother die. He probably almost died himself a few times from alcohol poisoning following his return. He's getting through it, though, getting better, getting over it. Joining the fire department is the best thing he's ever done. Chet feels like he has a purpose again, feels better than he ever did in the Army, than he ever did doing any other kind of work in his life. It feels good, and he has good friends to help him out there at the station. They all like him, like his jokes and his little pranks, and his captain always says how well he works when on calls.

They get called out to a fire at a major refinery, and Chet has to admit he's kind of excited. He hasn't been a fireman for very long, just a year, close to a year-and-a-half. This kind of fire is still exciting. It gets his blood pumping and his heart pounding. He's _excited_ to go to this fire. As they pull up at the refinery, Chet sees a lot across the street where some construction has begun, and he wonders what they're going to build there.

The scene at the refinery is like a battlefield. The sight makes Chet's chest feel tight and uncomfortable. Men are shouting and giving orders. The radio is a constant chatter of all the captains and the chief. Refinery workers scurry to and fro, helping firemen and directing them through safe places. Rescue squads and ambulances are on stand-by, waiting for the wounded and taking them to the nearest hospital. It's like war zone triage, and Chet forces down a sudden onslaught of fear, of bad memories. The engine is ordered to another part of the refinery where the fire still rages.

Chet goes where he is told. He's a lineman, a grunt, and that's what he's supposed to do. His is not to question why, his is but to do and (hopefully not) die. He grabs a line and hauls it where he is told. Flames lick into the sky, black smoke billowing upward. Chet sprays water at the fire but knows they'll be here for a long while yet. Metal groans above them, the sound cutting through the roar of the fire. Chet looks up.

The structure towering over them sways dangerously. There is a shuddering groan, a guttural shriek of twisting and breaking metal. A cry goes up for everyone to run. Chet turns to flee with everyone else but gets caught up in the line and goes crashing to the ground. He screams for help, reaching out for the other firemen, but it's too late. At the last moment, Chet manages to curl in on himself, making himself as small a target as possible for the falling structure. This leaves him trapped by the wreckage.

He can barely move, but he does what he can. Chet lashes out, striking out at the metal encasing him, screaming until he's hoarse, until his throat is raw, until he's sobbing. He's terrified and frightened. He doesn't want to die here. He didn't survive Vietnam to die here at a refinery in a heap of scrap metal. A fierce need to live flares up inside his chest. He screams through his tears, through his raw throat. He wills his voice to push through. He will not go gentle into that good night. He will fight. He will rage, rage against the dying of the light. This is a battle, and he does not intend to lose.

A strange noise reaches his ears, so he seeks its source. A crow has found its way into the wreckage with him, but it's a kind he's never seen before. Its head, wings, and tail are black, but its body is an ashy grey. It caws again, and Chet resumes his screaming, fighting desperately to live, clawing and shoving at the twisted metal surrounding him. He jumps at the feeling of someone touching his shoulder. He's more shocked to see who's there with him.

Huddled there in the wreckage with him is a woman. Her skin is bone white, her hair black as night, her eyes the palest green he's ever seen, her lips painted blood red. She wears a cloak with a black hood, sleeves, and hem, the rest an ashy grey that fades into the black. Chet's breath catches in his burning throat. He's heard of creatures like this, ancient beings that come to take away the dead, that descend on battlefields to collect their prizes. He tenses, still ready to fight, to survive, to live. He will not allow himself to be taken.

Her pale eyes pierce his very soul. A long moment passes where neither moves, where they don't even seem to breathe. She leans in close, whispers to Chet, "_Ní an lá inniu_," and beckons him to follow. She leads him through a maze of spaces just big enough for him to fit through, spaces he wouldn't have found in his panicked desperation. He blinks, and She is a crow again, squawking at him to keep up. He pushes through, still clawing and shouting, his voice hoarse but loud. She came to help him because he fights, because he refuses to die, because he screams long past the point he should be able to. He is a fighter, a warrior, and today is not his day to die.

Men approach to pull him out as he closes in on his exit, but he fights them off, watching the crow take off into the sky. He must do this himself to be worthy of it, to be worthy of the life given him by the ancient spirit. He wants to cry from how bad his throat hurts, sucking in harsh, dry, rattling breaths. Chet manages to heave himself out of the wreckage, manages to stumble a few yards away from the hulking pile of metal before he collapses, coughing blood from his ravaged throat and crying weakly. He can't talk at all for almost two weeks, and it's a full month before his voice is back to normal.

No one talks to him about what happened that day until he confronts his partner about it, who caves and gives him the full story. They watched the structure fall, watched Chet become trapped in the wreckage, but the fire was too close, and there was nothing they could do until the fire was pushed back. When they heard him screaming, they all thought he was burning to death. They were amazed to see him crawling from the wreckage, screaming in defiance rather than pain. Chet's pretty amazed himself.

He never speaks of it again.

_Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight  
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

John Gage secretly enjoys brush fires. He loves the wild, loves being out of the city. It probably comes from being raised on a ranch. He was raised with horses and cattle and open spaces, raised on the Seminole reservation in Oklahoma, came of age in the mountains of California. John has an inherent love of open spaces, and if he has to fight a brush fire to get out of the city, so be it. He will beat back the flames, will preserve these open spaces, will make sure others have an opportunity to enjoy them as he has done.

Station 51's A-shift hasn't been together but a few months, but John knows the men will take care of him. They will protect him as best they can, will try to keep him from harm's way, and he will do the same for them. When he picks up this OT shift at the brush fire, it's to protect others, to make sure someone else won't get hurt, someone who has a wife and kids. He loves his new job as a paramedic, but he also loves hauling lines and fighting fire. He pulls a line toward a wall of flame, standing there beside other firemen, a line of defense against the fire.

Something snaps and cracks. One of the men shouts for everyone to move, that a tree is coming down. John twists and moves just in time. Unfortunately, he moves the wrong way and becomes cut off from the others by the burning tree. He stumbles back from the heat, head whipping around, desperately seeking an exit, a way back to the command post. There's none to be seen. Fear claws at his heart. This cannot be. He can't be cut off from everyone. He searches in vain for an exit again, retreating from the flames when he finds none. His stomach rolls and churns anxiously. He's never been trapped like this before.

Above his head, the tree limbs burn, smoke curling high into the sky, blotting out the sun. The ground beneath his boots is charred and blackened, still smoking in some places, still burning in others. The brush fire has ravaged the landscape. It burned through quickly, and the ground can still be burned more. Fire drips from the trees, igniting patches on the forest floor, creating a forest of fire. Everything is cast in a sickly orange glow. John wonders if he'll ever see any other colors again. Tears burn in his eyes behind his safety glasses. This is not how he is supposed to die.

Fire roars in his ears, but he hears something else under the constant roar. It's faint but familiar, a sound he hasn't heard in quite some time. He follows the sound, carefully avoiding hotspots and smoldering earth. The smoke is thick and gritty in his throat, but he presses on, listening hard for the unexpected noise, going where his feet and ears lead him. He can't be sure how far he's gone when he finally finds what he's looking for.

A buckskin mustang rears and kicks, eyes rolling fearfully in her head, whinnying and braying. John approaches carefully, slowly. The mare is just scared, frightened by the fire, but a scared horse can easily kick his head in. He doesn't see a bridle or headstall on the mare, can't make out a tattoo or a brand of any kind. He puts up his hands and steps closer to the horse, speaking in tones low and soothing. He finds himself speaking to her in the old language he learned from his aunt, in the Mvskoke they spoke at home and with the others on the rez, the language he wasn't allowed to learn in school. He's proud when it calms the mare enough for him to lay hands on her. There's a wide blaze down one side of her face, turning one eye blue while the other is a light brown. John rubs her thick neck, runs his fingers through her dark mane, and smiles. He had a horse like this once, a gentled buckskin gelding he helped his uncle herd cattle with.

The buckskin mare nuzzles at his face and nickers softly, starting to move away. John feels compelled to follow her wherever she'll lead him because it'll probably be safer than anything else. He walks beside the mare, keeping a hand on her withers the whole time. It makes him calmer to know she's there with him, that there's someone beside him though he's separated from the other firemen. He wishes he could get up there to ride her, but he's too worn out to try and climb up there and she's probably too worn out to carry him.

They walk for hours, the sun sinking behind the smoke, the world becoming dark around them. John's legs feel tired and heavy and oh how they ache, but he walks on with the buckskin mare, knowing somehow she'll make sure they're safe. The smoke begins to clear from the sky as night falls, revealing a full moon and twinkling stars. John and the mare keep walking. He remembers getting back here for his OT in the morning, and it was early afternoon when he was cut off from everyone by the tree coming down. He's thirsty and tired and aching and so utterly exhausted. It must be about midnight when they finally top a crest and see the command post at the bottom of the ridge.

Only a few engines are left, and John can see some private vehicles alongside the chief's car, vehicles he recognizes as those belonging to the men he works with now. The thought somehow never occurred to John that people might be out there looking for him. He starts for the command post but stops when he realizes the mare isn't going with him. She gazes at him with her mismatched eyes, nuzzles at his face as if to say, "_Not today_," lets him stroke her nose and cheeks and neck. John butts his forehead against hers, breathing in when she breathes out. He doesn't want her to go but knows she must. He's come to realize she's not a thing of this world, that she walks on the Other Side. Such creatures cannot be tethered to the Earth. He steps back from her, and she turns and gallops away, her hooves like thunder on the dead ground.

John stumbles down to the command post, barely able to enjoy the chief's incredulous expression before he passes out from sheer exhaustion and dehydration. He wakes up in Rampart, surrounded by the men from his shift, each wearing a weary but happy smile. They all clamor to speak to him until Dixie shoos them out. He knows they'll want to know how he survived, how he got out. He wishes he had answers for them. John knows he ought to be dead. He ought to have been killed by smoke inhalation or burns or by sheer, extreme exhaustion from walking for so long in such high heat with no water. There's no reason he should be alive right now. He really ought to be dead.

He calls his aunt later that day, wanting nothing more than to hear another human being speak in the soothing sounds of the language of his ancestors. John tells her what happened, and she only cries a little, telling him he was so lucky to be visited by such a spirit. He dreams that night of the buckskin mare with the crooked blaze and mismatched eyes, dreams of her running with her herd, running with horses of every size and color and pattern. He wakes the next morning feeling more at peace than he ever has.

_And you, my father, there on that sad height,  
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.  
Do not go gentle into that good night.  
Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

* * *

_**A/N: Chet's 'vision'/Reaper is loosely based on a figure from Irish Mythology called Badb. **_


End file.
